


oh night divine (all that remains)

by Previously8



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Cows, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Season/Series 04, Soft Horror, Winter, as in it's not spooky but there are many references to Spookiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:13:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21603541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Previously8/pseuds/Previously8
Summary: For the first time this year, the snow has stuck to the ground like white glue, coating the desolation left behind by the apocalypse with glittering white powder.Martin had hoped, ridiculously, naively, helplessly, that Jon would wake up today....Or, It's been months since the apocalypse, and Martin has settled into routine. Jon, though, is less himself than he's ever been.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 8
Kudos: 70





	oh night divine (all that remains)

**Author's Note:**

> wooo how about that s4 finale huh?
> 
> I wrote this like mid-november as part of a series of one-shots in various fandoms I wrote for NaNoWriMo-- but told myself I couldn't publish it until December 1st so here we are... it's inspired in part by listening to Tuning Out by Bastille on repeat, if you want mood-music
> 
> general warning for xmas themes and apocalypse talk, but no canon-level spookiness

“The cows are okay,” Martin tells the quiet room as he steps out of his boots.

It snowed the day before and, for the first time this year, it’s stuck to the ground like white glue, coating the desolation left behind by the apocalypse with glittering white powder. It was actually fairly pretty, and Martin stayed away longer than he usually did to admire it. He likes the winter, the cozy, pretty parts of it. The cold and the emptiness, he could happily live without. 

He pulls off his scarf and hangs it on the hook by the door. The trek from their bunker to the cows and back isn’t far: He didn’t even have time to feel chilled. Still, he had lingered before he left, sure to lace his boots tightly, pull on his gloves finger by finger, and spend that extra minute wrapping a scarf around his neck, pretending he would need it to stay warm. Part of him is still stuck on _that_ morning, when everything went wrong because he left. Most of him knows that nothing ever goes wrong anymore. Nothing ever happens at all anymore.

“I think Basira might pop by later,” Martin continues and into the main living area. “That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

Jon doesn’t answer.

He’s sitting exactly where Martin had left him, like he always is. It’s rare that he moves on his own anymore. On the good days, Jon is almost like himself, blessedly awkward and distracted, clumsy but not as much as Martin, and quick to help. He’ll leave his chair, spend time with Martin—talk, or listen, depending on how he’s feeling. His eyes will light up in recognition, and he’ll even smile if he’s forgotten what he did to the world. 

The good days are fewer and farther between now, but the Jon that Martin knew is still there. He has to be. 

The switches back to quiescent apathy are always sudden. One minute, Jon will be almost himself again: walking, talking animatedly, moving, living. The next, without a hint to the trigger, though usually the sight of the sky is enough, he’ll retreat, eyes staring off, becoming the motionless shell of a person that Martin has been getting used to caring for. He’ll sink into the chair, his chair, and speak no more.

The worst days are when Jon laughs, when he falls in ecstasy at the glory of the terror that was wrought through him. Some days, he calls for more. Some days, he marvels in the desolation and giggles at the emptiness and ruins around them. Those are the days that Martin worries he’s finally lost Jon for good.

Most of the time, though, Jon just watches. 

The armchair faces an empty fireplace. Jon has a mug of cold tea on the table next to him (it had been warm: Martin always makes sure that it’s warm, when he puts it there, in case one day Jon decides to drink it, to say, “thank you, Martin”, like he remembers who he is, like he remembers before). His gaze is focused, Martin knows, though not on the fireplace itself. It’s likely that he’s watching some other scene, somewhere far away, where something terrible and lonely and devastating and deep is happening. He’s cataloguing, Martin thinks. He’s living through it. Martin doesn’t like walking in front of Jon when he’s like this: his gaze is too sharp, and Martin fears that if Jon looked at him, really Looked, he might see something or say something and be lost for good. 

Martin feels lost most days.

Not like in the Lonely, though. At least here, he keeps in regular contact with Basira when she pops by, and even with Georgie once in a while, though that’s rarer and rarer, lately. The cold has kept everyone indoors. 

Martin gets himself a mug and thanks goodness for the running water that they still have. He fills the teapot and places it on their small gas stove. It’ll whistle for him soon enough. 

In the meantime, he sets about tidying up. He sets the cushions to right, though they haven’t moved, and sets the table for two, though he knows that Jon won’t join him. 

“If she does come,” Martin continues his earlier thought, “I wonder if she’ll bring something to eat.” He rights the placemats carefully but doesn’t light the candles. “I mean, we have enough, of course. But she’s more central, remember?” The funny thing, Martin always thought, about the apocalypse, about the destruction of the world and its downfall into this newfound reign of terror, is that it doesn’t change the day-to-day. “It’s been a while since we went to the city.”

He doesn’t tempt fate, of course: he lets the tap water run, but tests it every week. He doesn’t light the candles, for fear of the Desolation; he doesn’t close the blinds, for fear of the Dark; he doesn’t get too close to the cows on the hill, for fear of the Flesh; he talks, though he has no fear of the Lonely anymore. He lives with the Watcher, now, which is its own sort of protection, but he knows better than to invite anyone else in. 

His teakettle whistles sharply. He pours himself a mug and stands in the kitchen, staring at the back of Jon’s head from across the room. 

Martin had hoped, ridiculously, naively, helplessly, that Jon would wake up today. That today, of all days, Jon would be active and alright enough to have a conversation with. They could even tie a cloth around his eyes like a blindfold this time, Martin had dreamt, and that way he wouldn’t fall into his watching as easily. He didn’t dare try while Jon was still—away-- like this. But if it were Jon’s choice—if he were enough himself to be okay with it, maybe they would have the day together again. If Jon weren’t distracted by the menacing red clouds, or the never-ending dust, or anything else, they could have a day together. This day, together. It’s been weeks.

Not that Martin minds, of course, but he would have hoped, you know, for today, at least. 

He sips his tea too quickly and burns his tongue. 

It’s going to be dark outside soon, he thinks, staring at the slowly violet-red sky outside. It’s always cloudy, nowadays, though you can’t tell at night. Darkness, Martin knows, didn’t exist properly before the apocalypse. If the ancestors thought they knew dark they were wrong, because they always had the stars. The darkness now is that much deeper, that much more intense, that much more impenetrable—it sometimes skirts the line with the Buried in its oppressive weight. 

It’s a vain hope that Basira will show up at this point. It’s probably too late. 

Still, Martin goes and puts on his favourite green jumper. Jon had once complimented him on it, in the days before they were scared of anything at all. He’s wearing it today, still hoping it might wake Jon up. He knows better: nothing stops Jon from Watching but himself. 

“It’s a feast,” he says aloud to his reflection in the bathroom to convince himself this is a good idea. The mirror has a spiderweb of cracks in it from the time that Jon saw his reflection and wouldn’t stop screaming until Martin broke it. It’s too bad, Martin thinks. He liked having a mirror. 

So, feeling a might pathetic, Martin wears the sweater and slices bread. He puts it on the table as though they were going to be accommodating guests, right in the middle. He puts some molasses on the table as well, in the small glass jar that Basira had brought from the city. He puts the carrots in water on the stove and mourns ever again the fact that he never learned to cook well when he still had a wealth of ingredients. Boiled carrots were still better than no carrots, but only for the first three months. Now that it was winter, though, maybe they’d have to find something new. 

“Potatoes,” he tells the empty kitchen. “I’ll learn to cook potatoes. Do you need butter for mash?”

He goes back over to Jon’s chair—just to check, he tells himself, he’s just being sure that Jon’s comfortable—though his first task is always to check if his eyes are moving. If they aren’t, Jon is too far away. When they are, or if he’s blinking, he might come back. He might Look somewhere closer.

Jon’s eyes are still. 

Martin sighs and runs a hand through Jon’s dark hair, combing through the locks. He doesn’t know if Jon can feel it, but he hopes so. 

As the carrots boil on the stove, Martin goes and gets the one thing he’d been saving for when Jon woke up—he’d told himself it had to be today, even if he hadn’t in weeks. He’s all but given up now, though. 

Carefully, with more delicacy than is really warranted for a pair of socks, he hangs the stockings on loose bricks above the gaping fireplace. He stares at them, crooked as they are, dangling unhappily. He wishes he could light a fire. That might cheer it up, he thinks. 

He’s about to stand, when a voice says from behind him, “Merry Christmas, Martin.”

Martin whirls and falls back. 

Jon, who had been entirely motionless, dead to the world and watching, is sitting up slowly. He’s shifting gingerly, not used to having the capacity to move anymore. He meets Martin’s eyes and his are focused, but blinking and warm and animated. They crinkle at the edges when he gives Martin a half-grin. He’s the most beautiful thing Martin’s ever seen.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” He asks, and his voice is raspy, as though he’s been reading statements all day, not sitting in a chair, silent and stoic. 

Martin wants to laugh. Martin wants to cry. 

Instead, he settles on a smile, and stands to help Jon to his feet and to the table. He lets himself forget the apocalypse, for a few moments.

He says, “Merry Christmas, Jon.”

**Author's Note:**

> irrelevant to the actual story, I hc jon as jewish and would love to explore what non-apocalypse christmas/hanukkah celebrations in a jonmartin household would look like, but alas that was not this fic
> 
> hope you liked it :) please leave a comment if you did! 
> 
> you can also find me on tumblr [@everythingsdifferentupsidedown](everythingsdifferentupsidedown.tumblr.com)


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